The Veil Between Us
by the.spudette
Summary: Sherlock's latest case hits much closer to home than he could have anticipated. He is quick to realize that he is able to see the victim's ghost, who aids him in solving the case. But a ghost might just be what makes this consulting detective realize that he misses what he once only took advantage of, and perhaps does have "feelings". AU Sherlolly. Currently on hold.
1. Chapter 1

**I do not own anything in the Sherlock universe. That all goes to ACD, Moffat and Gatiss (those lucky ducks).**

Sherlock's phone lit up, vibrating in his hand. It took him less than a second to open it and see the text from Lestrade. His eyes narrowed for a moment. A case. And an urgent one too, according to the man's choice of words. This one had better be at least a seven, unlike the last time the inspector Lestrade had summoned him to a crime scene. The man had been murdered by his wife's jealous sister. It was plainly obvious, and he'd solved it within a few minutes. Sherlock tucked the phone into his pocket and reached for his coat.

"Where are you going?" John asked from his seat in the living area, looking up from yesterday's paper.

"Lestrade's got a case for me. He says it's urgent" Sherlock explained, going about putting his scarf on now.

"Sherlock, you know I'd come with you, but I promised Mary – "

"That you'd take her to dinner. I know. If this one's anything like the last one, I likely won't need your assistance" he returned on the same casual tone.

John smiled. " _Try_ not to upset any widows this time, okay? I won't be around to fix the damage this time"

Sherlock seemed to hesitate for a moment before a light smile spread across his lips. "No guarantees" was his answer before vanishing out the door.

The London air was cool this evening, the wind ruffling his dark curls. It was chillier than usual tonight, and Sherlock simply stood on the sidewalk, feeling uneasy. He pulled his phone out again and read over Lestrade's text once more.

 _Murder by 147 King William Street._

 _It's urgent. Please come at once._

 _I'm sorry._

What on earth would Lestrade be apologizing for? The inspector took full advantage of his services despite what his superiors thought, and so it seemed unlikely that he would finally be taking some pity on his consulting detective. There was one other option, though. The victim could be someone he knew. If Lestrade was assuming he may feel sadness over this particular individual, then he was wrong. John was safely tucked away in 221B Baker Street, and he hardly considered himself 'close' with anyone else. Not close enough to care if they died, anyway. It certainly wasn't Mycroft either. His brother never left the safety of his offices without backup or some form of security.

What about Mary? He ran the idea through his mind, but was quick to discard it. She'd texted John only a few minutes before Lestrade had texted him; he'd seen John's phone light up. She was out with a friend, primping herself up before their dinner.

Finally hailing a cab, Sherlock left those thoughts aside for the entirety of the ride.

Police were swarming around the street corner, tape limiting off the section of sidewalk joining together the two apartment buildings on either side. A few officers were standing around, chatting among themselves, while another few mumbled into walkie-talkies. The street lamps and flashing police lights cast an eerie glow over the two old buildings.

Sherlock saw Lestrade step out from the alley, looking tired. He hadn't shaved in a few days, he could tell, and the slump in his shoulders as he walked revealed evident discouragement. No matter how hard he searched, however, he could not find the answer to his previous question written on the man. He hated not knowing things.

"Sherlock –" he started.

"Show me the body" Sherlock cut in impatiently. Lestrade silenced himself and simply nodded before leading him to the alley.

They dodged through a small gathering of officers, a task made more difficult by how narrow the space was. The cluster cleared to the end of the alley, occupied only by a trash bin and a bloodied brunette on the ground, currently being examined by Anderson. The man looked up at them both upon their arrival. He and Lestrade exchanged a look before both solemnly turning their gazes to Sherlock.

Sherlock's blue-green eyes soaked in the scene, sweeping over every small detail he could identify. Scratches on her arms, which he'd need to examine more closely. She wore a knit jumper over a white shirt, the latter being stained red in some spots. The delicate yet calloused hands bore no rings or immediate signs of damage, and her mousy brown hair, pulled back into a ponytail, was splayed out across the pavement. There was a pause in his body; not only in his stride, but in his breathing. His heartbeat.

Molly.

Blinking set him to normal again, his face as unreadable as ever. He had not considered his pathologist when deducing who his victim might be. But she was simply another case, another body, and another way to bid his time, he thought. One concern did still float around in his mind, however. The other workers at the morgue were absolute mules when it came to cooperating with him. Who was he to get his body parts from now? Sarah and Vincent weren't so easily seduced by a simple compliment. He'd had a certain hold over the mousy woman, which could be plainly seen by John, Mycroft, Lestrade, or anyone who worked at St. Barts, and he'd used that to his advantage.

"Sherlock?" It was Lestrade's voice that broke through his thoughts, returning him to the present situation.

"Thank you, inspector Lestrade. If you could instruct your forensics scientist to remove himself from the area, I'll have a closer look at the body" he said, his gaze finding a clearly-annoyed Anderson. But although the displeasure was clear on the man's face, he did not protest, and let Lestrade pull him aside.

Sherlock was quick to get to work. He crouched down beside Molly's small form, first bringing his attention to her hands. He couldn't accurately estimate how long ago she had died, but her nails did reveal an important clue. Blood had dried beneath them; a DNA sample to be examined in the lab later. This investigation would be relatively short if her attacker could be identified immediately. He continued his examination, heading higher to inspect the blood on her collar. He'd need to see if it corresponded with the blood that may have come from her scratched arms.

Straightening up, Sherlock just looked at Molly's unmoving figure. She looked peaceful, as though merely resting on the pavement, even if her injuries told a different story. There had been a struggle, clearly. He'd eliminated the possibility of this being an accident nearly as soon as he'd arrived. Molly was smart; she'd proven that during her time as his assistant when he and John had not been on speaking terms. She'd also brilliantly helped him fake his death, fooling the whole world, and for that, he'd always be grateful, even if he didn't often express it.

His mind was drifting again, and so he turned his attention to her head now. Ahh. Gently turning it to the side, he spotted what had likely killed her. The underside of her ponytail was bloodied, with the back of her head having been bashed in. She had been hit in the head from behind, but it wasn't just that simple. There was no puddle of blood anywhere near where she'd be lying, and the trash bin was completely clean. Their murderer could have cleaned yet been careless enough to leave his DNA beneath her nails, or – the option he was currently favoring – she had not been killed here.

Sherlock carried on his assessment for a few minutes more before standing up again. Many parts of this did not make sense to him, like the motive, most prominently. This was certainly higher than a six. He would need to meditate on this one, review the details, and consider the options. Once he had his lab results, he may have a clearer idea.

Leaving the alley, Sherlock brushed passed Lestrade, who jogged after him when he saw that his detective was not stopping. "Sherlock! Have you found anything?"

The tall man only paused briefly to look over his shoulder. "I need the blood beneath her nails and on her collar examined. Send me the lab results when they're ready" was all he coldly offered as a response.

With that, he carried on down the street, both hands shoved deep into his pockets. "What secrets do you hide, Molly?" he murmured to the wind.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Sherlock's playing the indifference card. Tsk, tsk. You silly, silly man. I ought to pinch those cheekbones of yours.**_

 _ **Thanks to everyone who has followed and reviewed the story so far! So here we go; Chapter 2!**_

Upon shutting the door to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock found himself faced with John and Mary, seemingly waiting for him. John sat in his usual chair, his face creased with worry while Mary sat on the arm, sniffling lightly though obviously trying to hide it.

"Sherlock," Mary started hoarsely.

Sherlock eyed them both for a moment. "Weren't you two supposed to be at dinner? I told you I could handle this one, John" But then things fell into place in his mind. John's phone was sitting on the table. "Lestrade texted you" he stated, his posture straightening.

John got up from his seat and put his hand on Mary's shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me?" the doctor asked coldly.

"I didn't know until I got there. Lestrade only told me it was urgent, just as I said to you" Sherlock replied firmly.

The other man's tense frame relaxed a little. He still wasn't pleased, but Sherlock knew that John understood that he was telling the truth. A knowing look passed between them just as John came to wrap his arms around his wife in consolation.

"H-how could this happen? Molly was the sweetest little thing. She'd never harm a fly" Mary blubbered.

 _Perhaps too sweet and harmless_ , Sherlock thought to himself. There was no telling if a more solid frame and a few karate classes might have made a difference – not until he found the killer – but when he thought of Molly, that was mostly what came to mind. Harmless. Innocent. Fragile. All lovely traits to have when getting people to like you (unless that person's name was Sherlock Holmes), but utter rubbish when faced with an attacker. Sherlock Holmes often found himself in the face of danger or emergency, and therefore could not permit himself to be any of those things. Of course, he didn't believe himself capable of possessing such "qualities". He was brilliant. Ignorant, perhaps, and blunt, and rude – John could likely go on for days – but he was bloody brilliant.

It was John's turn to speak now, crashing Sherlock's small moment of pride. "How was it done, then? How was she killed?" he asked.

Oh he loved proving his brilliance, and detested admitting defeat, but he was not defeated yet. He would solve this murder, and sooner rather than later. Molly was a simple woman, and so the circumstances surrounding her murder were surely of a similar kind.

"I…have not managed to deduce that yet. I know several things, however. There was a struggle, and so Molly would have likely seen her attacker" he began, linking his hands behind his back.

"She can't exactly inform us on that now" John cut in, pulling his lips into a line.

"No," he agreed dismissively before continuing. "A blow to the back of her head was what killed her. With a blunt object, according to my observations. And she wasn't killed in the alley where her body was found"

Mary released a choked sound before leaning her head into her husband's shoulder. "You're going to solve it. I know you are. You're Sherlock bloody Holmes" she said, as though to comfort herself.

Sherlock's gaze softened slightly. "Of course, Mary. I know you two were quite close. Once the lab results are in, I should be able to solve it in no time" he assured the woman. She was a strong one, and though she was currently stricken with grief, he knew she would handle it better than most in the long run.

"But what about you, Sherlock?" John piped in.

Sherlock's brows knitted together in confusion. "What about me?"

"Lestrade's in a tizzy, Mary's heartbroken, and I quite frankly am shocked at all of this. We all knew Molly. Are you alright?" A shard of the doctor's more sensitive side peaked out in that moment, still clinging to the hope that his friend may be more than just gears and metal deep in his chest. He should know better than to question him on such things.

Sherlock's gaze had grown cold once more. "This is a case, just like any other. It matters not if I knew the victim or not. It matters only that I solve the crime and locate the culprit" he said calmly.

"Sherlock! What if Mrs. Hudson had been the body in the alley? Even Mary knows that you would not stand to see her harmed!" John was angry again, having released his wife to clench both fists at his sides.

"That's another matter entirely!" Sherlock protested, throwing his hands up in the air. "Mrs. Hudson is like a mother to me. I would seek revenge on her killer in a heartbeat" His landlady was indeed very dear to him. It was one of the few instances of affection he admitted to. He also needed John in his life as his friend, and he quite liked Mary. But outside of those three people, it was crucial for him to maintain indifference. His fall from St. Barts was only proof that it was dangerous for Sherlock Holmes to feel. To love.

John's jaw was tight as he clearly debated whether he should ignore the detective or punch him. "Molly was nothing to you, then?" he asked as calmly as he could manage.

"You all act like she's my best mate and I'm supposed to wallow in despair over this! Molly was of great help in times of need, but she is merely my path-" He caught himself and tried again. " _Our_ pathologist. She was a nice person and offered her services to my investigations, but if I went around feeling sad over every murder victim, nothing would ever get accomplished around here!" he finished with a huff.

Mary touched her hand to John's arm, urging him to calm down. "John, leave it be. Molly wouldn't want you two to be having a row over her"

"We're not!" Sherlock and John both loudly said at the same time, looking at Mary. Silence reigned in the room for a few moments before Sherlock broke it.

"Unnecessary attachment and feelings cloud my thought process. If I am to solve this murder as quickly as possible, I cannot be distracted" he said stiffly. "You know that" he added, looking at John. The latter was true, and even John couldn't deny it.

The doctor ran a hand over his face, sighing. "Alright, fine. But I fully expect you to attend the funeral, at the _very least_ "

Sherlock opened his mouth but then shut it. If that was all John asked for, he could comply. Standing around a wooden coffin for an hour or two in one of his suits would be perfectly painless, and a decent sacrifice to make to avoid the silent treatment from John. They were childish, the two of them. They really were, but neither of them was willing to admit it. Usually Mary was the one to blatantly say it, but she was too emotional at the moment to bother getting involved. What mattered to her right now was that a conflict had been narrowly avoided in this time of grieving.

Pulling off his coat, Sherlock began to march towards his room, pausing in his step only to say, "Your wife is clearly distressed. You should make her some tea" before disappearing down the hall.

"I wish he wasn't such a machine sometimes" he heard John mutter before locking himself in his room.

It was in the confines of his dark room that he would find peace. At last, he could settle down and think. Sitting atop his bed, the man crossed his legs and remained stock still. Sounds of John getting the kettle boiling were completely shut out of his mind. Not a muscle moved in his body. For the moment, he was convinced that he could solve this without the aid of a nicotine patch or two. The solution to this mysterious murder had to be staring him right in the face. He was just missing…. _something_.

Sherlock steepled his long, slender fingers beneath his chin, lost in thought. He hadn't delved very deep into his mind palace before a whistling noise made him poke open an eye. It wasn't the kettle. The old silk curtains fluttered as a gust of wind drifted in through the open window. He chose to ignore it, and returned to his previous train of thought. But then there it was again, stronger than the last time. Frustrated, the man stood from the bed with a grunt, and moved to shut the window. It gave a satisfying _click_ as it latched closed.

"Sherlock?"

The detective jolted, clutching the curtains for balance. It needed to be noted that he was not an easily startled man, but this voice behind him was not one he was expecting to hear. It defied everything he thought to be logical and possible…and that sent a chill through him.

 _ **Dun dun dunnnn. Much suspense. I really have a thing for cliffhangers, so I'm sorry, but yeah xD Hopefully it won't be too long before I get the next chapter up!**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Well, I'll admit that writing our consulting detective being faced with the impossible was challenging, but here goes!**

Sherlock turned to be faced with his pathologist, Molly Hooper. For a moment, his normally hyperactive mind froze. Any sort of explanation for the current situation escaped him entirely. He'd been to the crime scene and had examined the corpse. It was without a doubt Molly who had been in that alley. Yet here she stood, wearing that same oversized jumper, and a pair of brown trousers. Her hesitant brown eyes wordlessly watched him, hands wringing together before her. It felt absolutely bizarre to have the roles reversed in this situation; _he_ was the startled and clueless one.

By this point, the gears in his mind were gradually grinding back into action. His eyes absorbed the sight in front of him, and his brain attempted to process it. Such a vision would usually be caused by substance use, but Sherlock had not touched any drugs for months.

Could she have faked her death just as he had faked his own? Surely she was an expert on such a thing by now. The detective still refused to believe that he'd been fooled. It had been easy to trick the others into believing what seemed obvious, but he, the great Sherlock Holmes, knew better, so he thought. Had he missed something at the crime scene? He frantically ran the details through his mind again. All signs pointed in the same direction – death. He was unable to conjure a solution, and so it looked like he would need to ask for assistance.

"Molly," he began, finding his voice.

"Sherlock," she answered calmly, biting her lip. The sound of her voice set him off-balance again.

The man cleared his throat and continued. "You haven't died" he stated, watching her carefully for confirmation of his words. Molly said nothing, and shyly looked down at her feet.

"Answer me" he said, more firmly this time. He did not have the patience to be fooling around with unnecessary uncertainty. "How did you do it?"

Finally her mouth opened. "I didn't." It was unclear to him if she was answering his first or second question.

"Didn't die. Yes, but how?" It pained him not to be able to decipher it on his own.

She shook her head. "No. I… I _am_ dead" she answered, bringing her gaze back up to meet his.

Sherlock relaxed his shoulders, placing his hands on his hips. "Don't be ridiculous, Molly. How did you fake it? I examined your body quite thoroughly…" To someone like Sherlock, the latter statement was perfectly harmless.

"I'm. Not. Dead." Molly replied, clearly frustrated with his lack of understanding. But what was there to understand? If she would only bother to enlighten him, this whole misunderstanding would be over.

"Touch me, Sherlock" she added after a moment of silence.

 _What a very bold command_ , he thought. He also thought Molly knew him better than that. She was aware that he would engage in no such thing. "Molly, I'm not going—"

"Not like that! Give me your hand" said Molly, frowning as she extended her arm out to him. A resurrected Molly certainly had more courage than the Molly he knew previously.

Her body language did not reveal any sign of a trick, and so the man slowly met her hand with his own, opting to prod the tip of her fingers. Except…he couldn't. At the moment at which his skin would have touched hers, he found nothing but air. It was as if she wasn't even there. Frowning, he pushed his hand further forward, sliding it right through the pathologist's palm. In a split-second, the detective had retrieved his hand, letting it fall to his side. "That's impossible" he breathed, eyeing Molly with new disdain.

Sherlock began shaking his head, the gears beginning to unhinge and grow rusty as they refused to properly turn in his head. The whole system felt like it was about to collapse. "No! Whichever trick this is; end it!" The man brought his fingertips to his temples, and turned to face the window. If he concentrated hard enough, he could wake himself and escape this ridiculous dream. And if he'd been drugged…

"I knew I shouldn't have come" he heard Molly say behind him. _No, the Molly from his mind palace. From his dream._ He needed to block her out. "I'm sorry, Sherlock" she ended stiffly.

Sherlock's body trembled from the effort he was putting into ending this madness. "Come on, dammit!" he exclaimed in frustration. Eventually he gave up, throwing his hands down as his eyes burst open. His breaths came hard and fast with his accelerated heart rate. None of this was right, and if he couldn't wake from this suffocating alternate reality, he was better off dead. A world in which his brilliant mind turned to mud and became utterly useless was not a world in which he belonged.

Turning around, he faced an empty bedroom, void of any other human presence. She was gone. The detective calmed down. "Molly?" he called. "Molly!"

Nothing.

"Molly!"

There was a banging on the door. "Sherlock? What in the bloody hell is going on in there? Unlock the door right now!" John called from the other side.

After taking a moment to stabilize himself once more, the man strode to the door, but did not open it. "Everything is fine, John. Leave me to my thoughts" he said calmly.

"You were shouting Molly's name, Sherlock!"

If he could just put the past ten minutes behind him, he would be infinitely happier. Whatever that had been, a moment of insanity perhaps, he was not about to reveal anything to John. He did not need the doctor to worry about him more than he already did.

In one swift movement, Sherlock unlatched the lock and swung the door open. "I'm fine" he reinforced, looking at John sternly. The other man's suspicious gaze did not vanish after this statement. Sherlock, spotting this, merely pushed past him and made off down the hall.

"I'm going for a stroll. I need some fresh air" he announced, pulling his coat off its hook. He didn't even notice if Mary was still there or not as he left out the door.

"At this hour?!" John exclaimed from inside the flat.

Sherlock ignored this and once he'd shut it behind him, the detective smoothed his hands through his hair. "Ghosts do not exist" he murmured to himself. With a flip of his collar, the man was off into the night.

 **So he'll carry on pondering this little encounter in the next chapter, and we'll definitely be seeing more of Molly. Stay tuned!**


	4. Chapter 4

The streets were barely any more silent than they'd been when he'd gone out earlier. Though this street was empty, he could hear the cars coming and going in the distance, with the occasional frustrated horn being honked. Deeper into town, he knew clusters of people would be milling into the nearest pubs for a drink to kick off their night. And all across England, crimes would be occurring. Murders, kidnappings, break-ins, rapes…. Criminals just like the one who had attacked Molly would be getting into action, and come morning, he may just have another case or two.

Sherlock could juggle more than one case at a time just fine, but he wished to solve Molly's murder before needing to fill his mind with any other unrelated details. This was why he was out here, trying to clear his mind of anything unnecessary. The latter included the little episode in his bedroom. As he strode down the street like a tall shadow in the night, Sherlock remained incapable of conjuring any logical explanation for what had happened in that instant.

Molly did in fact occupy a small part of his mind palace; a part which he usually visited when he required scientific tidbits that he remembered Molly vocalizing to no one in particular. Even the smallest things had proven to be of some use on certain cases. But his mind palace would not start acting against him like that. Bits of information from Molly were not enough to make him hallucinate for a full three minutes.

It was also said that grief or guilt could do things to a person. Sherlock, however, was not grieving nor was he guilty. What good would it do him to cry over Molly's body? To be incapacitated for days because he was just _so sad_. Spending even just one day without a case drove him up the wall. Normal people would be absolutely crushed about this kind of thing, but Sherlock Holmes was _not_ normal. That was what he told himself, anyway.

And guilt? What on earth did he have to be guilty for? Well… John didn't fail to remind him of what an arse he supposedly was towards her. He did have to admit that he didn't exactly treat her like a friend, or even an acquaintance. He knew that he was her weakness, in a sense, and with a few right words and moves, he could get her to do anything he needed. She'd been so loyal to him that she'd even helped him fake his death. Alright, so maybe he should have shown a bit more gratitude and stopped using her like a tool. But it was too late now, now wasn't it?

Sherlock stopped walking. What was he doing? Bloody hell, her 'appearance' almost seemed like his punishment for his lack of caring over the years. He'd been a horrid – but brilliant, let us remember – person, and now it was coming back to torment him. The man shook his head, before repeating his previous words. "Ghosts do not exist." And he was not going to be driven insane by nonexistent things. He needed to get a grip. What he also needed right now, was to go someplace crowded. Somewhere he could be invisible, yet not alone at all. There would be no notion of ghostly apparitions when surrounded by living, breathing bodies.

The pub reeked of alcohol and sweat, making Sherlock's nose crinkle slightly. It reminded him why he didn't really do the whole outing thing. And drinking dulled the senses. He couldn't have that. A trio of overweight men sat at the bar, downing their beers like they were going to give them eternal youth. That call was already long past, he thought. The shortest of the group had shaved not long ago, likely before coming here. And judging by the way he glanced at this pair of young giggling women across the room, he had every intention of making himself more attractive. He hadn't done it for mere practicality. Sherlock's eyes narrowed a little, before he removed his gaze from the men and seated himself at an empty table. He could read the others in here all her wanted, but it would get him no closer to his goal.

After settling himself, he clasped his hands together and set them in his lap. Gradually, the ambient buzz of the pub dulled away, and there was only him and his thoughts. Anyone observing him would surely think he was strange, but it was the least of his worries.

Molly's killer. He didn't necessarily have to be very big to get that kind of damage on her. As long as he could get a firm grip on her arm. Now, this person could be associated with Moriarty's network, but this seemed highly unlikely, for Moriarty himself had underestimated Molly's value. Speaking of which; had he as well? _Back on the facts, Sherlock_ , he sharply scolded himself.

Anyway, if Moriarty had deemed her insignificant, then surely it was mainly mutual throughout his contacts. He'd taken down a good few members of the network during his years of being "dead". Now that it was publicly known that he was alive, perhaps some had begun to dig into how he'd managed it. Most might assume it was thanks to his powerful brother, but they were quite wrong, even if Mycroft _had_ played a small part in the grand act. He would never give the man more credit than needed, lest Mycroft's head get so big it exploded. Her Majesty would certainly have a fit then.

On the other side of the coin, it was possible that Molly's killer hailed from a different matter entirely. Something absolutely unrelated. Secrets did not seem to be Molly's cup of tea, other than the one he'd made her keep for him, but then again, who would suspect the mousy, innocent little pathologist of anything? Huh. This tangent intrigued him, as vague as it was. It would probably end up being discarded later, but he kept it on a back burner for the moment.

Returning to the present, he felt calm and properly in his element; enough to seek out his flat again, and to survive the street without letting any more ludicrous thoughts overwhelm him. It was a relief; he wouldn't need to sit in this dingy pub any longer. Sherlock lifted himself up and out of his seat, but paused mid-action upon spotting a figure a few tables over. He must have entered while he was thinking. The curly-haired man was slumped over an empty tankard; one that had never contained any alcohol in the first place. The man's hands clutched the tankard so hard, his hands shook. His wide-eyed stare was focused deep into the bottom of the glass, a morose air hovering about him.

 _Well what do you know_ , Sherlock thought. It was Molly's ex-fiancé himself. The man was affected by Molly's death, he could tell, and while John would warn him about tact, Sherlock strode on over to his table, intending to have a small chat.

"Most men would put alcohol in that glass to drown their sorrows" Sherlock stated calmly, standing adjacent to the other man.

Tom lifted his eyes, and upon spotting Sherlock, he swallowed hard before shaking his head. "I would appreciate it if you left me alone, Sherlock. I've just lost the woman I love."

"Loved" Sherlock corrected.

Tom frowned. "Just because we've parted does not mean I care for her any less. Things just…didn't work out between us, romantically. The loss of Molly hits me just as hard as it does Mary, or her parents, or even John. And if you ever cared about her as much as she cared about you, you'd feel the pain too" he added coldly.

"Yes, well each individual deals with loss differently" Sherlock said dismissively before returning to the matter at hand. "Your hand, it shakes. You're unsteady, yet you haven't consumed a single drop of alcohol" he pointed out. This caused Tom to look down at the hands clutching the tankard. "You didn't come here with the intention of drinking, but rather to bid your time; to think" Much like himself, the detective thought, but never would he truly compare himself to this fool. "You're nervous, and you're scared. But what have you to fear? Death is death. Or have you another matter on your mind?"

Tom averted his gaze elsewhere, choosing not to answer.

"I'd advise you to be careful in the night. You never know what or who might be lurking" were Sherlock's last words, offering the man a far from reassuring smile, before disappearing out of the pub.

Tom could have his own matters to tend to, but this could link in with Molly's murder, given how they'd split not very long ago. Tom lived in the area that Molly's body had been found – okay so perhaps he'd followed the man home once or twice before - which was too much of a coincidence to ignore. There was indeed more to this case than Sherlock might have thought, and his missing variable was Tom. If he was nervous, the detective was going to find out why in due time.

 **Perhaps the beginning of a small crack in the detective's facade? Yes? No? Maybe? Guess we'll have to see... And Tom. I never did like him xD But what does he hide, if he even hides anything at all?**


	5. Chapter 5

As the door opened to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock found the flat empty. John's coat no longer hung at the door, so he must have gone to sleep at Mary's. That worked in his favor right now. The man couldn't argue with him about his whereabouts if he was not here.

The detective rubbed his hands over his face. His body felt the fatigue of the late hour, but his mind was still racing, far from a resting state. He still had so much information to process, so many pieces to put together. Sleeping was out of the question, as was always the case when he had a mystery to solve. Everything else became secondary.

His long legs carried him to the kitchen, where he planned on making himself a cup of tea, but found one already sitting there. It had long ago gone cold, but the man wasn't bothered. Picking it up, he took a sip and nodded his satisfaction. John could get angry at him all he wanted, but he never managed to remain angry for very long. For the longest time, they'd been all the other had. Now John had Mary, but their friendship still stood strong. The difference was that he wasn't around as often, which caused Sherlock to bury himself in more cases to bid his time. In his partner's absence, he supposed he did have – or had - Molly, but she was merely his pathologist…right? Miss Hooper was unexpectedly popping into his thoughts in the strangest of contexts tonight. Discomfort filled him for a moment, before he shook his head and left the room.

 _Tom… Tom… Molly… A blunt object…_

Sherlock was distracted as he twisted the knob and entered the room. His tea instantly soared through the air, and the cup fell to the ground, making a loud clang, but not shattering. He froze, eyes wide, failing to notice that his front was now soaked.

"Sorry!" Molly gasped, matching Sherlock's gaze as she clapped her hands over her mouth.

So this wasn't over. Sherlock properly grounded himself, taking three deep breaths.

"I'd clean you up and make you a new cup of tea, but…" she started, nibbling her lip. Wrinkles had appeared in her forehead and around her mouth, as was always the case when she was worried or nervous.

For now, the detective would play along. Panicking and trying to flee from the situation had only temporarily worked the last time. "Yes, you go through things. It's of no importance to me if I'm without a cup of tea. I'm actually quite glad you're back" he said calmly, lying about the last part.

"You are?" Molly appeared to be surprised by this. "I just thought I'd try one last time to—"

"To what? Appear in the night and disturb me? Stop me from solving your case? Look, if you're from within my mind, then you must be able to answer a few of my questions" He moved from the doorway to lean against his closet.

Molly had shrunken down again, unsure what to say for a moment. "But the tea…"

"It will be cleaned up later" He hadn't specified who would clean it, but by sunrise, the tea would be gone. "You are dead. Correct?" he started on the new thread. His eyebrows had risen, prompting her to answer as quickly and efficiently as possible.

"Yes. I… was killed" she answered quietly.

"Next question; the Molly I see before me now is… what exactly? I suspect you've escaped from the deep reaches of my mind palace. I just wouldn't have expected you to look so real" he mused, looking her up and down with an analytic gaze.

Molly's warm brown eyes meet his blueish green ones. She shook her head. "I'm not a figment of your imagination, Sherlock. I may be dead, but I'm not entirely gone"

The man let the words seep into his mind, though they had a difficult time properly penetrating. "Ghosts don't exist" he said slowly, for the third time that night. His eyes narrowed now, wishing Molly would be a bit more helpful.

The pathologist's lips had pulled into a thin line. "I knew this wasn't going to be easy" she mumbled to herself, though Sherlock caught every syllable. The woman suddenly rushed forward, allowing no time for reaction. The detective could only inhale quickly as she was about to crash into him, but then she didn't, and she was gone. A chill traveled up his spine as a curious tingling sensation filled his body for half a second. It was brief, but Sherlock registered every detail.

"You felt something just then. I know you did" he heard Molly say behind him. Sherlock turned around to face Molly once more.

His mind was spinning. He'd experienced the sensation before…earlier that night, he realized. When Molly had touched his hand. Sherlock raised his hand to eye-level, examining it as he pondered all of this. The feeling was stronger when more of her traversed his body. A simple touch of the hands was like a light spark, whereas full-body contact brought on a cold shower. "You went through me…" he finally said, dropping his hand to his side again.

"You're finally getting it. I'm here. I may not be solid, but I'm real. Your mind palace may permit you to see things, but can it make you feel things, Sherlock?" she said. It was a rhetorical question, though one he knew the answer to. The tingle and the chills were real. He felt them without having consumed any hallucination-inducing drugs. It was curious, to be able to experience such a sensation when clean and sober.

"Do it again" Sherlock commanded, looking at her intensely.

Molly obeyed, but this time, she stuck her hand through his abdomen. His muscles tightened, but he absorbed every second of it. It was so abrupt and a shock on the nerves that it gave him a sort of rush. One not nearly as powerful as embarking on a fascinating case, nor as overwhelming as shooting some cocaine into his system. But it made his skin buzz in a delightful way, even though some might find it unpleasant. His brain had new information to process; information that only he now possessed.

When she removed her hand, he was tempted to ask for her to do it one more time, but refrained from doing so. He took a few steps back from her, making a note to conduct further experiments on this later, should Molly stick around. Now it was time to do some talking.

"So being a ghost… When you touch me, do you feel anything?" he asked.

"No. I don't feel a thing" Molly said, shaking her head. _Unfortunate for her_ , he thought.

Sherlock moved to sit on his bed, crossing his legs, and folding his hands together. If this was to become some sort of interrogation, he wanted to be in a comfortable position to think as information was given. "People like you; _ghosts_ ," he still struggled with the word. "You can choose when you appear to the living?"

"Yes. I left earlier so I wouldn't overwhelm you" she explained. Sherlock wanted to protest that his mind could have handled it just fine, even if it wasn't the truth.

"Should John or Mary come to the flat, could he see you?" He didn't quite like the thought of just anyone being able to see Molly. Seeing ghosts was something he wanted to keep for himself. A unique ability only he possessed. It could complicate things, if John could see Molly's ghost. This wasn't news that needed to be spreading on that blog of his, or in any newspapers. The rest of the world would just think they were loons, though of course most already saw Sherlock as a madman.

"I can choose to who I appear" was Molly's response. That, however, did not really answer his question.

He looked at her intently until she carried on. "And… I've chosen to only appear to you" she finished slowly, shyly dropping her gaze.

If given a chance to come back from the dead under any form, many individuals would choose to visit their family, their lovers, or even their best friends. But Sherlock was neither of these things to Molly. He was tempted to pry deeper even if it would likely embarrass her further, but didn't. Where he normally wouldn't have hesitated to point out that her lips were too small or that her wardrobe was horrendous, he could now only be silent. What he'd barked at John earlier came back to him. Molly hadn't heard that, had she? Surely not, else she wouldn't have returned.

Sherlock cleared his throat, ready to move down a different path. "I have a few questions pertaining to your ex-fiancée" he announced.

Molly's body language changed immediately. The curtains billowing down the sides of his window were suddenly very interesting to her, and the detective noticed that she'd begun wringing her hands. Her gaze was blank, but her bottom lip was firmly wedged between her teeth. Sherlock had seen this scenario before, many years ago. Though the man avoided his parents when he could, he wouldn't forget his mother's endless pacing in their sitting area, wondering where her husband was and what he was up to. Sherlock's jaw tightened. "Molly," he tried again, much more quietly. "Did Tom do this to you? Does he have anything to do with this?"

He waited…and waited, but nothing came. In these silent moments, Molly truly looked dead, like she ghost she was. Her pale skin had no color. She did not blink, nor did she move. One might have mistaken her for a wax figure. Sherlock realized that he had been holding his breath, and promptly released it. He opened his mouth to speak, but the pathologist abruptly jerked her head up to look at him.

"You should sleep, Sherlock. I can tell you've been up far longer than you should have been. Rest" she said softly.

"Molly, please a-"

"Sleep!" she exclaimed, her chest puffing up in a great breath. The detective leaned back, taken aback by the outburst from the mousy woman. "You need to sleep. You never do when you're on a case, but this one….this is different. If you won't do it for yourself, then do it for me. Please"

Sherlock was confused as to how a simple question had turned into her worrying about his health. She too was hiding something, much like Tom, but unlike Tom, he couldn't afford to have her run away. Molly had a ghost tongue capable of producing words; therefore she could share what had happened, and in explicit detail. But he feared that if he pushed further, he may never get to ask those crucial questions.

"Molly," he said calmly, uncrossing his legs. She was testing his patience, but did he have much of a choice?

"If you don't go to sleep, I won't come back" she threatened. Her gaze was hard and unwavering, going right through him much like her hand could. As much as he wanted to put up a fight, he knew that she meant what she said.

"Alright, but in the morning, you need to cooperate" was his stiff reply.

Molly didn't answer, but rather pointedly looked away, walking slowly around the room. In the meantime, Sherlock stretched himself out on the bed, flattening his curls into the soft pillow. If he could pretend to be asleep for long enough, then it might satisfy her. By the morning, she should have simmered down. As his eyelids lowered, he listened to the sound of his own breathing. The sound of Molly's footsteps were absent from the room; ghosts were weightless, so it seemed. Oddly enough, after lying there long enough, his body succumbed to the exhaustion that his mind worked so hard to suppress, and he drifted to sleep.

 **Made this chapter a little longer to compensate for the fact that I'll be gone for a bit, so no updates. As soon as I get back from my trip, updates should be more regular :)**


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